


French War Camp, 17 December 1636

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [23]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Codes & Ciphers, Constance/Anne (hinted), Correspondence, Decryption, Double Entendre, Established Relationship, F/M, Farmboy, Food, Franco-Spanish War, Gifts, Hamper, Innocence, Keepsakes, Knitwear, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Puzzles, Secret Relationship, Slang, Swearing, Third Wheels, War, Wartime, encryption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: “Voilà!” gestures the younger man. The others just stare.“Bloody hell,” says Porthos, letting the lid fall away with a thunk on the winter-hard ground.Athos blinks, then goes to his haunches to inspect it.*Another instalment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	1. Cornucopia

“Post! Post, post, _post!_ ”

“Shut the _fucking_ door, willya?!” roars Porthos, hunched into a blanket and glowering.

“Fresh air is a blessing.”

“You are _obsessed_. Are all Gascons this weird for indoor gales?”

“When they kip with a Parisian fart-press they are…”

“‘Kip’?”

“What?”

“We’ll make a Parisian of you yet. ‘Kip’.” He shakes his head, heads for the entrance. “Go on, then. Post?”

“Well, wait,” he says, dumping his parcel in the middle of the table. Athos, abruptly bereft of map, pulls his head up and raises an eyebrow. “There’s a reason I’ve not closed the door yet.”

“Get on with it, d’Artagnan, or I will put you on latrine duty.”

“That’s an abuse of power.”

“That’s right.” He gazes at him, and d’Artagnan becomes remarkably meek in short order, heading circumspectly out again. They hear him calling thanks to someone, and a rattling squeak of… a barrow…?

“Why doesn’t he do that when I tell him off?”

“Well, one,” says Athos, putting his quill down with the air of someone who is not going to get their work done anytime soon after all, “I’m his superior officer.”

“Fair.”

“And two,” says the Captain as they both turn to watch d’Artagnan drag a crate in over the threshold, “you wouldn’t actually spank his arse for him if he disobeyed you.”

“Want to bet?”

“Never with you.”

“Wise man.”

“I can hear you both, you know.”

“We do,” says Athos, dry as dust. “You know, you should probably try walking that.”

“‘Walking’…?” He looks up, cheeks bright and hair tumbling into his eyes.

Athos and Porthos mime the side-to-side lumber of manoeuvring a bulky object with feet or a flat edge in almost perfect synchrony. They then lean their backs against the table, cross their arms (Porthos tugging the blanket closer), and gaze at him.

“By myself, I’m guessing.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I see.”

“Good, carry on,” says Athos, command airy in his tone. D’Artagnan’s eyes narrow briefly, but he continues to waddle and drag the crate until it’s all the way into the tent and he has enough room to turn and fasten the door to Porthos’s ostentatious shudder of relief.

“Get over to the brazier,” murmurs Athos.

Porthos shakes his head, shrugs further into his blanket.

“You’ve not long stopped being feverish.”

“Want to see what the pup’s got.”

“Oi.” But his smile is sunny enough. “Help me off with this?” He stares back at them. “The lid?”

“Oh…”

The nails have already been pried loose at the entrance to the camp in order to check for anything untoward, and the lid set back on loosely enough, but it still takes both d’Artagnan and Porthos to remove it, nails squeaking in the new wood.

“Voilà!” gestures the younger man. The others just stare.

“Bloody hell,” says Porthos, letting the lid fall away with a thunk on the winter-hard ground.

Athos blinks, then goes to his haunches to inspect it.

“Cabbages.”

“And carrots.”

“And eggs.”

“Where?”

“In that straw.”

“Blimey.”

“And… hold on…” They starts to pull the foodstuffs out, silently, two-handed. Porthos lays his blanket on the ground and piles the eggs into it, slowly, gently shaking each one.

“Stop that,” says d’Artagnan.

“Eh?”

“They’ll all be good – trust me.”

“Okay.”

The end of map table furthest from the brazier is summarily requisitioned for the eggs and the pastries and then they turn at Athos’s choking sound. He is pulling out a bottle of wine and staring at the label. He then sets it down and, even more reverently, extracts a bottle of what looks to be brandy.

“Damn,” breathes Porthos.

The wax-bound cheeses turn out to be nestling around a beautifully fat goose, a clove-studded ham, and a leg of lamb. Then they examine the straw-padded clay pots that are labelled, among other things: “Honey”; “Nutmegs”; “Preserves, Apricot”; “Preserves, Peach”; “Preserves, Strawberry”; and–

“Paté!” says d’Artagnan with the kind of awe generally reserved for cathedrals during mass.

There is a sack of what purports to be “Flour, White”, and there are also pots of pepper, salt, and mustard, the latter of which Porthos has to be tacitly threatened over in order for him to relinquish it.

Athos rises slowly from amid the straw-scattered bounty as Porthos pokes hopefully in the corners of the crate. “All right then,” he says, addressing d’Artagnan. “What’s going on?”

His comrade has a suppressed look of glee on his face. “Guess.”

Athos puts his hands on his hips. “No.”

D’Artagnan’s smile gives up the struggle and beams out. He bathes in it for a moment. “Constance,” breathes her husband.

“Ah, of course.”

“Seriously?” says Porthos, looking up. He coughs heavily, sniffs, wipes his beard reflexively. “No offence, but I didn’t reckon on her being a rich woman – like, we knew you were marrying above your station… Hey, hey, _hey!_ ” he ducks back from d’Artagnan’s playful swipe. “You said so yourself!”

“Trust you to remember that.”

“Go on, d’Artagnan,” urges Athos, quietly.

“I think I know, but I’ll need to open the other parcel.”

In the excitement of hams and _excessively good brandy, dear God_ , and the bag of sultanas that Porthos is eyeing with the kind of hunger that fits right alongside _lust_ , he had actually forgotten about the map-obliterating parcel.

They stand around it, each to a different side of the table, Porthos shivering a little until Athos nudges d’Artagnan to put some more wood in the brazier. “Go get my blanket,” he says, gently, to Porthos. “Go on,” when the larger man hesitates. “I don’t think any of us is fit to move these eggs yet.” Porthos ducks his head gratefully, lumbers off, and comes back swathed.

Athos draws his main gauche with a touch of ceremony, and slices through the twine. They peel back the outer cover of oilcloth to find three parcels within, each labelled to a different one of them. D’Artagnan is gleaming, and he reaches for each one, without a thought, to pass theirs to them in turn.

Athos shakes his head gently, a soft but cautious smile on him, lays his hand on the top of his own and asks, again: “What is this, d’Artagnan?”

“Gifts,” he replies. “Go on – open yours.”


	2. By Her Own Hand

He’s nodding and smiling like it’s a birthday, and Athos looks across at Porthos, who shrugs, and digs out his working knife from beneath the enveloping fabric to slit the string on his own parcel, then changes his mind at the last moment, lays the knife on the table and his fingers on the knots – many and intricate, Athos now notices – smiles, and turns the parcel over slowly and thoroughly in questing hands until he’s found the end of the string, and starts patiently working it free.

Athos turns his head to d’Artagnan, a question in his eyes. D’Artagnan shrugs, then leans in and murmurs to Athos: “He seems pretty happy, though.”

“Hm.” Athos watches Porthos unpuzzle his gift, and d’Artagnan moves around the corner of the table, ostensibly so that he can have a better view, but also to take the chance to stand hip to hip with Athos, right hand cupped over left shoulder. It’s comradely and entirely appropriate, and lays a strip of warmth all down the length of him, his reaction to which is complex and at least partially _in_ appropriate.

The moment Porthos gets the knots undone enough to slide the parcel free, Athos brings his hand up to lay on d’Artagnan’s and they both share a quiver at the sight of Porthos smiling so unguardedly.

As he unfolds the paper, he’s greeted by a length of soft, knitted fabric, which turns out to be an enormous scarf combining Musketeer blue piping with a dark brown, roughly the same colour as his everyday leathers. He beams like Athos hasn’t seen him do in far too long, and immediately pulls it out to drape it about his neck and chest. Underneath this is: a letter; what turns out to be fingerless gloves of the same brown as the scarf, which he shakes his head at, grinning; a jar of cotignac which he insists on opening to fingertip taste rapturously; three handkerchiefs with “P” embroidered in the corner; and a small, blue, calico sack, sewn shut into mystery. Porthos lifts it with a light frown, tilts it across his palms so they can all hear the rustling inside.

“Mmh,” says Athos, appreciatively.

“Ooh,” says d’Artagnan, moving back to his end of the table, closer to Porthos.

“What?”

“Oh,” he says. “Your poor nose. Hold it closer to your face.”

He does, looks at d’Artagnan again, who mimes sniffing expressively at his own palms. He does. His face shifts again. “Oh,” is all he can say, soft and uplifted, and sniffs again, a difficult, clotted sound. He shakes his head. “I can’t make it all out.”

He holds it out towards Athos who checks with his eyes then lifts it gently from him towards his own face, closing his eyes and breathing deep, letting it wash through him.

“I’m hoping her letter will tell you more,” he says, eventually, “but I get lavender, hops, and camomile. Maybe something like rose petals.”

He looks over at d’Artagnan who shrugs and says: “Rosemary as well?”

“Mmmh, maybe. And something else that I can’t quite…”

Porthos has torn open the letter. “Sweet tobacco and cloves. And fresh wood shavings. That’s why I kept thinking of taverns. Oh, the good wench. Oh, the darling wench.”

Athos suppresses the amusement he’s feeling with difficulty – Porthos is rhapsodising, and God knows he can’t remember the last time that happened.

“Here, stop staring at me and give me back my sack.”

“Done,” says Athos, handing it over and then raising his fingers to take the remains of the scent deeper inside himself again.

“Your turn,” urges d’Artagnan.

“Hmm,” and he fingers the seal across his before slitting the twine and opening the paper.

Another scarf, this time black with a piping of a tricky colour that is almost, but not quite, the Musketeer blue. He blinks, pulls off his own scarf, and winds this one, smaller than Porthos’s, but no less fine, around his neck a couple of times, catching the scent of something he can’t quite define but which makes his eyes prick suddenly. Blinking rapidly, he looks down to find: a letter; an exquisitely tiny, folding chessboard box that contains all the pieces in miniature; fingerless gloves in black; three handkerchiefs with “A” embroidered in the corner; and a plain but well-made wooden box, this time containing… three sturdy pencils, a ruler, and a very handsome quill that he looks at in a little dismay, knowing that it will likely be either ruined or lost the next time they decamp unless he keeps it within this box punctiliously, and even then…

“This is quite wonderful,” he tells d’Artagnan, “and this largesse,” he gestures behind and around him, “will keep feeding us for months – a week, if we share with the regiment.”

“A very happy week, mind,” muses Porthos, and Athos sees cards tumbling over toasted cheese wagers behind his eyes.

“Hm. But why? And how?”

“I think I know,” says d’Artagnan, and he’s a little more sober now. “I’ll open mine now.”

Athos nods, somewhere between invitation and command.

D’Artagnan’s parcel is neither sealed, like Athos’s, nor knotted, like Porthos’s – it’s gathered together in a white satin ribbon, which bow he pulls on gently, face a little reverent, and Athos has to assume that this means something to d’Artagnan that it won’t mean to them.

Inside his the letter comes first, on top of a coil of fabric that muddles Athos’s eyes. He fixes them instead on d’Artagnan, who lifts the letter to his face first, eyes closed, breathing in, and Athos is stunned, quietly, all over again at this, at. Hmm.

The younger man smiles as his hands drop, only a little self-consciously, and he pulls the folds open. They watch his eyes scan rapidly over the page, and then he starts to nod. “Thought so.”

“What?” asks Porthos.

“The house,” he says, “she sold it.”

“Woah, what?!”

“Wait…”

D’Artagnan shrugs. “Turns out it was hers to sell. One of the Bonacieux cousins wanted it, _and_ her share in the laundry, and she – reading between the lines – she negotiated a good price.” He raises his eyes to each of them in turn, and his expression is… complex… composed of pride and resignation and chagrin.

Porthos whistles, low and breathy. Athos clamps down on the concern he immediately feels, for all of what this means, and itches to read the letter, to read his own.

He remembers the sheer sense of freedom, terrifying though it was, to sign away his manor and all that came with it to the people who actually lived and worked there. Clear as sunlight, he can see Constance insisting on a clause about how much workers are to be paid, and he can’t help but smile.

D’Artagnan looks at him, quizzically. He feels his smile broaden as his eyes lock with his, and he makes the slightest motion of his own hand as of tossing something into the air and letting it go. And d’Artagnan understands, of course he does, but Athos is still smiling, so he answers it with a small one of his own.

For a dizzying moment, they both consider the notion of Constance being truly free to live on her own terms and what that all might mean.

“Here, wouldn’t it be yours now?” asks Porthos.

D’Artagnan slants an awkward look his way. “No. She told me this… um, over a year ago, anyway. His will was very specific – I think he wanted to ensure that any child of his wouldn’t be supplanted by a new husband and, despite everything, laid his wager on Constance.”

“Not his blood family?”

“You never met the rest of them, I think?”

Athos shakes his head. He’d steered clear of the house and the family as much as possible until, well…

Until d’Artagnan.

“Not a congenial bunch?” guesses Porthos with a dry grin.

D’Artagnan shakes his head emphatically. “Imagine the Borgias, only tradesfolk.”

“Jesus.”

D’Artagnan’s face is all awkward angles and, for a moment, he resembles the coltish youngster they’d taken in, back in the beginning. They’re staring at each other again, and the tent is very quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this is partially inspired by [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/breathtaken_kinkbingo/works/1389652).


	3. Embranglement

Porthos clears his throat. They shake their daze off and turn to him.

“Go on, then – what are _your_ gifts?”

D’Artagnan blinks rapidly and lowers his flushing face to dig through that confounding fabric to bring out: copper-brown fingerless gloves; three handkerchiefs with “d’A” embroidered in the corner; a jar; and a narrow package of calico as long as his hand that looks to be containing something soft. He lays them all on the table, and immediately pulls the wide stopper from the jar. His face shifts immediately and he shows it to the others. Inside is a dark substance. Athos reaches out with questioning brows and lifts it towards his face. He frowns over the unfamiliar, almost musty scent of the powdery substance within. He passes it to Porthos, who plucks it from his hand with the same tenderness of touch. He shakes his head on a downturn of mouth.

“Me neither,” says Athos, as Porthos hands it carefully back to d’Artagnan, who grins. “But _you_ do.”

“We are _not_ ,” he says firmly, “sharing _this_ with the rest of the regiment.”

“All right…”

“You’re both in for a treat,” he continues, smile sharp. “This is _chocolate_.”

“Oooh,” says Porthos.

“Right?”

“Damn me.” He shakes his head. “That house must have been worth a fair amount.”

“Or Constance bargained someone _down_ on the price of all this,” adds Athos.

“Hah.” Porthos points. “So, what’s that?”

Frowning lightly, d’Artagnan applies himself to the small package as the others call out suggestions: tobacco, a tiny sausage, an unconventionally wrapped handkerchief, ditto hose, ditto braies, Rochefort’s finger–

“Fuck off,” he says, cheerfully, still struggling with the knots.

“A carrot of your _very own_.”

“Haha.”

“A cucumber,” suggests Athos, enjoying how d’Artagnan redoubles his concentration on the package, colour creeping up his neck again.

“A sheath,” posits Porthos.

“For what? The world’s smallest, softest dagger?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Hm?” he says, clearly close to getting the tangle undone.

“‘You said it, not me.’”

“Yeah, I heard what you said,” he responds. “I just… ah!” the knot comes free. He turns the package to attack the other end.

Porthos looks at Athos, who shrugs.

“Honestly,” he says, “I can’t tell if you’re kidding, pup.”

“Hm?”

“D’Artagnan, did you get the joke?”

“Which one… oh, bugger…”

“The one about the sheath.”

“Yes, you were just being daft. Oh, _come on…!_ ”

“Want a hand?”

“Not from you,” he says, clearly on a reflex.

Porthos smirks briefly, then shoots another, quite serious, look at Athos before returning his gaze to their youngest member.

“Mate, you do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“Well, not really… there we are…”

“Do you know what a sheath is? Outside weaponry?” He looks at Athos again, who sends _I’m not helping you_ on a flattening of lips and a slow shake of the head.

“Er. No?”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s true.”

Porthos, frowning, persists. “A love glove? No? A smallcloth? A protective? Come on. An indoor cloak? A pocket priest? A whore’s best friend? No? _Seriously?_ ”

D’Artagnan looks up. “I have literally _no_ idea what you’re talking about.”

Porthos and Athos stare at each other. “All this time in Paris and you never… Well, I mean: I guess you didn’t… er…”

Athos closes his eyes. “Maybe I’ll explain later. With a diagram.”

“That’s nice,” says d’Artagnan, thoroughly unconcerned. “It seems a lot of trouble to go to, to explain a joke.”

Porthos gives Athos a look like: _Is he having us on?_ Athos shrugs.

“I’ve got it undone, now. If you want to see what it really is…?”

“Go on,” says Athos, shaking his head gently at Porthos.

He unrolls the fabric and a coil of colour tumbles briefly across the table.

“Oh,” he says, softly echoing d’Artagnan. Looking up, he sees him rapt on the sight, reaching his fingers over slowly. Smiling, he looks further across to see Porthos with an unguarded expression of utter sadness, subsumed the next moment into something more complex. He hurriedly shifts his gaze away, moving only his eyes so as not to catch the other’s attention. Luckily, the sight of d’Artagnan, his fingers delicately cupping the lock of Constance’s hair, bound at both ends with ribbon, is luminous enough to light a smile through him, thoroughly and delightfully distracting as it is.

“I do hope she hasn’t cut it all short,” he says, worry dropping through him.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” scoffs Porthos, a little too heartily for Athos’s liking. D’Artagnan smiles gratefully at him, all the same.

“Is that your scarf, then?” he adds.

“Hmm?”

Porthos points at the pile of fabric.

“Oh. I, er, I guess so?” He goes to lift it, and the reason for its sight-confounding pattern is revealed as it becomes clear that it’s not… well…

“Not exactly a conventional design,” remarks Athos.

It is not. It’s a pale fawn in colour, shot through with strands of black and the same sea colour as Athos’s own, but it is only two fingers in width at most, and, as d’Artagnan lifts and lifts it, approximately three… four times longer than Porthos’s… at least…

“I suppose it would keep you very warm – lots of loops…” he adds, uncertainly… this is Constance. It is very unlikely to be a mistake.

“It’d take an age to put on,” says Porthos. “Not massively practical.”

“And you’d have to tie it quite tight,” Athos continues, “to ensure that it didn’t sli– What?” D’Artagnan’s eyes have gone very wide and, he can’t help but notice, very dark. “Oh,” he mouths, d’Artagnan’s gasp having tugged understanding from him.

Porthos looks between his abruptly quiet, very warm-looking comrades, takes a deep breath and claps his hands together. They jump. “Well,” he says briskly, “this woodpile won’t fill itself,” and shuffles to dump Athos’s blanket on top of his bedroll and reach for his doublet.

“Are you well en…”

“Good to get the humours moving,” he says, cheerfully, snuggling his new scarf higher around his ears and pulling on his new gloves, topped by his riding gloves. By the look on his face and the way he flexes his fingers, the fit is very satisfactory. He claps his hat to his head, undoes a few toggles at the entrance, and ducks out, boots crunching in a hearty stride over the frost, cough pulling a clench of guilt across d’Artagnan’s face. Neither of them have shifted position in the time it took Porthos to leave the tent.

“So…” drawls Athos.

“Um. I may have let something slip just before I left.”

Athos has rarely seen d’Artagnan look genuinely embarrassed before. His lips are pressed hard together and his colour is high, his eyes skipping Athos’s determinedly. A grin spreads across his face before he can prevent it, though he laces it with as much compassion and genuine desire as he can.

D’Artagnan’s fingers stutter among the coils of the… well, _knitted gift_ is still accurate, he thinks.

“And what would that be?”

“I mean, I essentially let it slip to myself too.”

“I see…” He eyes d’Artagnan calmly. “I’m sure the circumstances were _pressing_.”

“Mmh.”

He regards him steadily. Smiles a little, sidelong. Murmurs: “You look completely delicious like this; did you know? The colour in your cheeks, your eyes enormous, your mind clearly somewhere utterly _captivating_.” His voice is a mix of growl and what d’Artagnan once called his “public voice” – an aristocratic blend of courteous and commanding that he knows fine well makes d’Artagnan somewhat shaky under the right circumstances.

Which these clearly are, or nearly.

“It is…” says d’Artagnan slowly, “an inconvenient time of day to have that illustrated so clearly…”

“I would illustrate it all the more clearly if I could. It is likewise inconveniently cold for such a clarification, but I’m sure your new acquisition would serve us admirably under such circumstances.”

The look d’Artagnan shoots him is magnificently heated, his nervousness peeled away to leave challenge in its wake. Athos feels his own breath stutter and his hands clench on the edge of the table as d’Artagnan smiles at him in a manner simultaneously pleading and predatory.

Athos is unsure what manner of gift he can send Constance in return for this and what is sure to follow at a more convenient time, day, week, or even month hence, but he will do his best to conjure one for her from thin air if necessary.

“Maybe Madame’s missive will give me more ideas as to how to make best use of her _gift_.”

D’Artagnan smirks abruptly. When he sends a quizzical look his way, he says “All in good time – we wouldn’t want to waste them all at once…”

“A very good point. Now, as I apply myself to interpreting Madame’s wishes, how about you make yourself useful and make a start on working out how we’re going to best share her bounty – selectively – with the rest of our heartsore, hungry brethren?”

“Yes, Captain,” murmurs d’Artagnan, pulling up a stool and reaching for a piece of parchment and a pencil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you just as confused as d’Artagnan at this talk of sheaths Porthos is, of course, referring to an early form of condom. _Hilariously_ , it was an epidemic of venereal disease in the French army that prompted yet another Renaissance resurrection of older technology. One of the more accessible online articles about this is [here](https://allthatsinteresting.com/history-of-condoms) (though a lot of it is perilously similar to the Wikipedia article).
> 
> Some of the slang terms Porthos uses are authentic; others… a little more original…


	4. Theory

Athos’s lips quirk as he looks at the address on his letter: **_Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers_**. On unfolding it, his expression slips into a frown.

“D’Artagnan…”

“Yes?”

“Constance’s letter. Did she make any mention of code to you?”

D’Artagnan shakes his head on a downturn of mouth then, at Athos’s steady look, rummages in his pocket with a wry moue and scans over it. “Not really. Ah, well, hold on; she says that she’s adjusted her assumptions on the grounds of your initial instructions.”

“No she hasn’t,” he mutters.

“Hmm?”

“Wait, may I see that?”

“Uh, sure.” He thinks: _it’s a good job we have no secrets, after all_ , as Athos’s eyes flick over the passages with swift lifts of lips and eyebrows, a scroll of emotions in miniature until he finds the phrase he’s looking for and he frowns, looks back at the coded letter, frowns deeper, and d’Artagnan is just telling his heart: _stop it, yes, I know he’s very handsome like this, and I know you want to smooth away those lines into astonishment and joy but could you_ please _get a better sense of timing?!_ when Athos backs to the half-open door, draws the letter close to his nose, and grins with the kind of delight he gets when any of them beats him at sparring in an inventive fashion.

He spins back to his own letter, then frowns again, pencil poised, taps it rhythmically, tilts his head, frowns again. D’Artagnan feels amusement spill across him and doesn’t bother to hide it, pleased to see his lover thinking about something other than war, torturing himself after every difficult decision, no matter how swiftly- and well-made at the time.

He turns back to his own task, starting by cataloguing everything that they’ve received. He thinks Athos would approve of his methodology.

Just as he’s about to work through his list, crossing off the items they’re going to keep for themselves, Porthos ducks in with a double armful of split wood, peers at the hunched, tapping, narrow-eyed Athos, frowns quizzically and, on getting no response from him, turns his query to d’Artagnan who smirks and shrugs. Porthos rolls his eyes on a mild shake of his head and strolls over, lays his burden in the basket by the brazier, and his right hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, who twists and smiles up at him. They adopt exaggeratedly pleasant, waiting expressions until Athos turns to spot them and, quite seriously, asks: “If you were asked what my initials were, what would you say?”

They blink at him. “A?” ventures Porthos, straightfaced.

Athos slants sarcasm his way. “Come on,” he says, and the others smirk. “Seriously?” he adds, and it’s almost plaintive. They laugh, gently enough, and then take pity on him. After maybe a minute.

“Oh, I dunno,” says Porthos, sniffing, bending, and placing a piece of wood into the brazier with an amount of concentration. “Your name now or… before?”

“Oooh,” says d’Artagnan.

“I tried that,” replies Athos, a little sourly.

“‘ODLF’?”

“Hmm. Yes, and OCDLF.” he peers at it again.

D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow at Portho, who shrugs, then waves a forefinger in realisation. “It’s the C-word. The one he… what’s the word? _Eschews_.”

“The…? Ohhh.”

The look Athos throws them is definitely sour now.

“Can’t you work it out from first principles?”

He sighs. “Well, obviously I’ll try that _next_ …”

“Go on, show us.”

Eyes hooded, Athos brings the paper over.

As predicted, it makes no sense.

“Okay,” says Porthos, running his finger across the line at the top, “so that’s ‘Dear Athos’, right?”

“Right.”

“Hey,” says d’Artagnan, “wouldn’t Constance have had to do this in the first place?” He looks up. “I mean: you didn’t give _her_ a key, did you?”

“Hmm,” says Athos, focusing on the letter.

“Hah,” says d’Artagnan, and gets a nudge in the ribs from Porthos.

“Right, so ‘Tkal Aiyqj’,” Porthos pronounces this with exaggerated sincerity “means that T is D, K is E, A is, er, A…”

“Exactly,” says Athos.

“Well, why can’t it?”

“Er…”

“He’s got a good point.”

“I know,” says Athos, shortly, then rolls his eyes when the other two snigger.

“You would,” says Porthos. “So would Constance.”

D’Artagnan can see the beginnings of colour sneak up from under Athos’s new scarf.

“Not everything,” says Athos, with dignity, “is about d’Artagnan’s penis.” Louder, over the sound of their reaction: “Can we _please_ focus?”

“Well, keys are supposed to be about common understanding, so…”

Athos throws his hands up. “I give up.”

“Surely not!”

“Yeah, this don’t speak well for your stamina.”

D’Artagnan peeks up at Porthos. “ _I_ can speak well for his…”

“ _No!_ ” It’s the bigger Musketeer’s turn to throw his hands up and step back.

D’Artagnan throws an _I won_ look between the others.

To break the silence he says: “So what am I looking at, then?”

“What?” Athos peers at him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised into his shaggy hair, looking for all the world like a ruffled owl.

“Go on – tell me what this is,” he insists.

His Captain frowns, purses his lips, sighs shortly. “Fine. It’s a letter in French that’s been encoded so that each letter of it has been changed according to a cipher. As far as I know, unless your wife has become a master cryptographer over the last year –”

“And I wouldn’t put it past her,” mutters Porthos, then catches d’Artagnan’s eye. “What?”

“Go on,” says the Gascon to Athos, pointedly ignoring him.

“As I was saying, unless she’s somehow moved on to scary levels of expertise overnight–”

“Hardly overnight,” murmurs d’Artagnan.

“Well. _Anyway_ , she’ll be using a system where each letter of the French version has been replaced by another letter in the alphabet on a standard pattern.”

“Same letter each time,” says Porthos.

“Yes. The ones we exchanged before were a simple Caesar code – A is Z, B is Y, C is X, and so on through the alphabet.”

“Reversed.”

“Yes. But I was going to introduce an offset for the next one, and she’s beaten me to it.” He looks down towards the table, intent and a little doleful.

D’Artagnan bites his cheek, cuts his eyes to Porthos: _say nothing_.

 _I know_ , he receives back, very drily.

“What’s an offset?” he asks, after about half a minute of brooding has gone by.

“Well, instead of A-Z B-Y, etc., you put a word or short phrase or random series of letters at the beginning of the key. If you chose ‘table’ as your offset, plus the Caesar, which she’s certainly done, the besom–”

“Oi! That’s my wife.”

Athos stares at him sidelong. “The clever besom?”

“Better.”

He nods. “Then A becomes T, B-A, C-B, D-L, and E…”

“E,” supplies Porthos.

“Hmm. Yes, then F-Z, G-Y, etc.”

“And I’m guessing it has to be a short word or whatever so there are no repeated letters.”

“Very good,” says Athos, absently.

“You should pat him on the head when you say that,” rumbles Porthos. “I bet he likes that.”

“ _Oi_.”

Porthos gives him a look to let him know that it’s Athos he’s joshing, but d’Artagnan is only partially mollified. He lazily returns his gaze to the Captain. “So you just need to find the key letters, that it?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s got you hopping about your initials?”

“Look here,” says Athos, animated again, proffering her missive. “It looks like she says ‘initial instructions’, but there’s a tiny ‘s’ at the end of the first word…”

“ _No!_ ” says d’Artagnan, snatching the letter away. They stare at him, and, to Athos’s astonishment and Porthos’s delight, he blushes. “ _Come on_ ,” he appeals to Athos. “I don’t think Constance would want anyone reading what she wrote…”

“I’m not _anyone_ ,” says Porthos, a grin splitting his face. “Go on.”

“No,” says Athos.

“Ah.”

“So just, er, just take Athos’s word for it, all right?”

“Blimey, she must have a right way with words.”

He catches a look on Athos’s face that he’s never really seen there before, or certainly not while sober.

“Blimey,” he says again, slower.

“ _Moving on_ ,” says Athos, slanting the briefest of apologies at d’Artagnan, “and assuming that Oqrjiarok,” he runs the end of the pencil against the sign-off, “means ‘Constance’, I, yes, can probably work out what she’s saying. Eventually.”

“It would just be quicker with the key.”

Athos nods as Porthos says: “Hold on…”

“Yes?”

“What’s the point?” He is frowning.

“Well I’d _quite_ like to know what my letter says,” he responds, mildly.

“I mean: if you can work it out because of common standards like: Dear Athos and Constance and…” he peers down at it, “And t’Aliazrar is likely d’Artagnan, right?”

“Ah. Right.” Athos peers, interested.

“Or whatever, who’s to say that the enemy can’t work it out? I mean: I don’t think the enemy are going to be, like, massively interested in your letters to Constance, but… why code at all?”

Athos considers him with slightly narrowed eyes. “Why code _these_ letters, or why code _any_ letters?”

“Any.”

“Smart folk will make the correspondence plain and with as few clues as possible.”

“Fair.”

“So why _are_ you and my wife writing coded letters to each other?”

“Oh,” says Athos, carelessly, “I don’t think we should get _bound up_ in details like that, should we?” He turns his head slowly and gazes calmly at d’Artagnan, who swallows visibly.

“I’m in a lot of trouble, aren’t I?”

“That depends,” he drawls.

“Don’t mind me,” says Porthos, “though if you _are_ gonna go at each other, you could at least let me have the brandy.”

D’Artagnan clears his throat. “Maybe,” he says, hurriedly, “er, maybe she _wants_ you to spend time deciphering the thing.”

“What, as a punishment?”

“No, as a pastime.”

Porthos grunts agreement. “Like my knots.”

“Yes, what was that all about?”

“Oh. Well, it’s. Huh. I mean, maybe she worked it out, but I’ll wager she went to Flea.”

“Who?”

“The, uh, Queen of the Court of Miracles. We, uh, we grew up together.”

“Oh… That was the, er…”

“The raven-clad woman.”

“Yeah.”

“So…” prompts Athos, hand twirling forward gently.

“Well, it was, er, when we were being trained, like. Knots. Like a game?”

“Ah,” says Athos. He frowns at d’Artagnan, who closes his mouth on his question.

“Well,” says the Gascon, “it’s a good job there are plenty more for you to undo.”

“I’ll savour that,” he agrees.

Athos sighs. “And I’ll get stuck into my own puzzle.” He plucks the letter from in front of the others and stalks back to stand next to the eggs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you work it out, please don’t spoil it for anyone else. ;¬)
> 
> Maybe there should be a prize system…


	5. Practice

Porthos peels off his riding gloves and hat, unbuttons his doublet, but leaves it on. He rubs his cheek briefly against the scarf and closes his eye on a smile.

“Liking your winter warmer?”

“Your missus is a ruby.”

“That she is.” They grin at each other.

“What you up to, then?” Porthos peers at d’Artagnan’s list.

He nods towards the other end of the table. “Himself,” a moniker picked up from Porthos, “asked me to work out how we’re going to distribute this among the regiment.”

“Ah, that the decision, then?”

“Well, you know – not _all_ of it.”

“No-one gets my cotignac!”

“Obviously!” He looks at his list, then up at Porthos. “Fancy helping out?”

He sniffs. “Sure.”

“Want the stool?”

“Nah, you’re alright.” He leans onto his crossed arms. “You missed the sultanas.”

D’Artagnan hissed. “Bound to be something.”

“And the flour.”

“Seriously? Ugh. Anything else?”

“Hold up.” Porthos shuffles between him and the brazier to gaze at the goods scattered liberally across the floor of the tent. “You get all the cheeses?”

“Yup.”

“And the patés?”

“ _There’s more than one paté?!_ ”

Athos’s snort blends with the clatter of the dropped pencil.

“Easy, pup.” Porthos bends and displays the pots in both hands, twisting a little.

“I love my wife.”

“Careful. Don’t break the lead in my pencil.”

“That a common problem for you two, is it?”

“You’re _clearly_ feeling better.”

“What gave it away?”

“The tent smells better for a start.”

“Hah. Be a shame to drop these.”

“Be a shame,” says d’Artagnan, standing and swooping fast, “for anything to happen to _this_ ,” and waves the mustard.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” he breathes, theatrical as a goose.

“Try me, big man.”

“That’s what _she_ said.”

“That’s funnier when Athos says it.”

“Hah,” rejoins their captain, eyes still on his puzzle. “Get on with it.”

“That’s what _he_ said,” shoots back Porthos, but he sets the patés down gently, patting them like waifs, and looking around him.

“You get the oil?”

“What?!” D’Artagnan has clearly been startled from another thought. Porthos smirks and points.

“Er, yes.” He cons his list. “Yes.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Work out what we’re keeping for ourselves, then crate up the rest to give to the quartermaster. He can then decide what gets parcelled out and what just goes straight to the mess.”

Porthos cuts his eyes to Athos and back to d’Artagnan, expression careful. D’Artagnan interprets this as: _Won’t he want to oversee this?_ D’Artagnan slants a brow one way, mouth the other.

“So we won’t be counting chickens, then?” asks Porthos, softly.

“No,” says Athos, as d’Artagnan opens his mouth.

“Which saint’s day is this? Who should I be thanking for this miracle?”

D’Artagnan shrugs. Athos twists on an inbreath, mouth dropping open, then shuts it, eyes briefly sad before his expression becomes neutral again. “If you can dig out the chaplain from his pit, he may be able to call it to mind, but you’ll need to take the brandy with you.”

Athos generally swerves the chaplain with a vehemence bordering on the way d’Artagnan treats cockroaches, without the swearing or stamping, mind you, and d’Artagnan knows it’s the stink of stale booze and stale clothes; the tangible, badly shaven despair of the man.

“Yeah, I don’t want to know _that_ badly,” grunts Porthos.

Athos’s only answer is a narrowing of eyes before returning to untwist Constance’s code.

Porthos and d’Artagnan pore over the list, and start to repack the crate.

“All sorted?” asks Athos, and they grin at each other to hear the determinedly casual tone in his voice.

“All done bar the eating of it,” says Porthos.

D’Artagnan smiles. “We thought: keep all the dainties here.” Porthos clears his throat loudly. “Which includes the mustard, _yes_. Um, and the cooked ham and the paté. The wine and brandy stay, along with the personal gifts. No offence, but we don’t have the means or skill to cook the big meats, and even Porthos can’t eat that many sultanas. We are going to keep some of them back, though.”

“And the cheeses?”

“Pick one to keep and we’ll send the rest over.”

Athos slides a hand behind a stack of papers, pulls out a red-waxed circle, and waves it, without looking at anyone. Porthos laughs himself into a coughing fit.

“Come on,” says d’Artagnan, after he’s dosed him with water, “let’s get the rest done and pack in the eggs last.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a carrot of your very own?”

“Are you sure _you_ don’t…?” D’Artagnan indicates by gesture exactly where Porthos may elect to receive his root vegetable.

"Hah.”

D’Artagnan nearly says “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.” but swerves the phrase with the skill of over a year dodging anything that will remind him of their missing part.

Porthos wedges a cabbage strategically. “I’m not carrying this bastard to the quartermaster.”

“Me neither. I’ll get LeBron out again.”

“Right. Hmm.” He cradles the egg blanket over to their recreated straw nest. “You know, this stuff’s in great shape, considering.”

“Yeah.” His smile waxes proud again.

“How’d she get the stuff here so fast is what I wanna know.”

“Hm?”

“Speeded courier, I expect,” says Athos offhand, head still bowed over the note.

“That won’t have come cheap.”

“Or it was a favour.”

“Hah. I knew she was pretty tight with the Queen, but I didn’t think she had connections _that_ good.”

“Well…” He can feel his eyes widening, tries to wrestle his expression into place while juggling eggs into the straw.

He’s saved by Athos calling over: “D’Artagnan, how much Latin does Constance have?”

“Eh? Er, not much, I’d say. I mean: I doubt she has any more than the last time you argued about it. Why?” He focuses his attention desperately on him.

“Well, it’s just that this bit doesn’t make sense unless it’s Latin, so…”

“What does it say?”

“Hold on.”

They hold on.

“Something… mihi… That’s ‘me’. Something A something D E.” He turns his head sideways. Porthos nudges d’Artagnan. “We’ve got R and N. U? Can’t be C. Ha. Idiot, it’s G.” He looks up towards them. “Can’t read my own handwriting. Gaude? Gaude mihi. Oh!”

“Are you _blushing_?” demands Porthos, delighted.

“Athos?”

“Dear Christ,” he thinks he murmurs.

“My wife is sending you _blush-inducing_ coded messages in Latin. I _really_ shouldn’t be worried.”

“You really shouldn’t be.” The look Athos throws him is heated. He’d be tempted to say _flustered_.

Porthos clears his throat. They jump and look at him. “Sorry,” murmurs d’Artagnan.

“Not a problem, but the thing is…”

“Yes?”

“I’m getting a bit tired now.”

Which means that he’s exhausted. “Shit, sorry – you should be lying down.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Why?” His look is genuinely puzzled.

“Er… good question.”

He dares another glance at Athos, who says, quietly: “Go to bed, Porthos. We need to organise some food for tonight in any case.”

“We need to fetch someone to cart the surplus.”

“That too. Any requests?” he asks their recovering comrade.

Porthos is creaking towards his bedroll, hugging the empty blanket. “Anything without eggs. And don’t let that mustard out of your sight.”

“I shall hold it in sacred trust,” he tells him solemnly.

“I’ll do it, if you like,” offers d’Artagnan, rising to his feet.

“Have you finished with your list?” He manages to make it sound like an apology for inconveniencing him rather than a scolding for not finishing a task.

“We’re all good.”

“Yes,” says Athos. “Yes, we are.”

“Can I borrow your old scarf?”

“Hm?”

“It’s cold out there.”

“Of course.”

He walks up to where it sits, carelessly curled at Athos’s right hand, just stands for a moment, soaking in his warmth.

“You should light a lamp.”

“In a moment.”

They both watch Porthos grumble his way into a terrain of bedding with eyes, gift still about his neck. Athos’s hand finds and tightens briefly on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. Watching Porthos banter and battle his way around – and out of! – the tent today has been like shifting a weight they’d forgotten they were carrying.

“I’ll get some fresh blankets while I’m out,” he murmurs.

“Thank you.” He turns his face to him. For a moment they just stare, locked in each other’s gaze, feeling the wash of breath across their lips. And the draft and remaining light through the nearly open door.

Athos lifts the scarf from under d’Artagnan’s hand and wraps it around his neck very slowly. D’Artagnan closes his eyes at the scent of it, taken by the fever-vivid sensation of Athos pulling the fabric to bring him close, into a warm, firm, affirming press of mouths. Instead, he feels another loop passed and the ends tucked under his doublet, hands lingering for a moment against his chest. He takes a long breath, opens his eyes, and smiles at his lover, who smiles back, truly unguarded, for a long moment, before nodding, hand safe on his shoulder again.

He nods back, sends a swift look to Porthos, and leaves the tent.

Porthos clears his throat meaningfully.

“Hm?” asks Athos.

“That’s a long time without a kiss.”

“Get some rest.”

“I’ll be better soon.”

“That’s an order.”

Silence, save the halting scratch of a pencil. He holds the paper to his nose again, curses between his teeth and lights the lamp. He holds the letter up again. He’s close.

“Athos?”

“Yes?”

“What’s on the back there?”

“Hm? Oh, just my name.”

“Lot of words.”

“‘Athos, Captain of the King’s Musketeers’.”

“She always call you that?”

“Well, she’s only written me a couple of letters since.”

“Right. Only…” He tails off meaningfully.

“Wh– Oh, for f–”

Porthos is still chuckling and coughing when d’Artagnan returns and chucks a fresh blanket at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are keen to know, the saint for 17th December is the rather marvellous [Hildegard von Bingen](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hildegard_of_Bingen), a Mediaeval polymath – polyglot, visionary, artist, medic, composer, and one of the first people to research and document the female orgasm… Oh, and she was a nun.
> 
> For those of you missing context, consider reading [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122455), wherein we discover that “Gaude mihi” means "Please me". Athos initially laughs because "caude" looks a little like "cauda", which is to say: "tail", also Latin slang for "penis".
> 
> If you’re still stuck for the offset (and actually care! ☺), let me know and I’ll enlighten you.
> 
> *
> 
> This work took longer than I expected. I think the reason for this is partly (mostly) composed of discovering how much I wanted to dig into the many layers of this scene, and partly (more than I’d like) composed of getting closer to having to produce one that is going to be difficult to write.


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